Outer Banks

By Allison B. Hanson

Can love survive at the edge of humanity?

It’s Dillon McAllister’s grim duty to track down alien-infected humans—aka “Haunts”—and quarantine them to the Outer Banks for their protection. His job disgusts him, but he continues because if he can get to them before the other hunters, at least they’ll be treated with respect.

But now he has a new client with a different mission: to get a pharmaceutical executive’s daughter out of the Outer Banks, because she may hold the key to a cure.

Dr. Emery Mitchell hates what she’s become, but she knows she may be the only hope for three hundred thousand detainees isolated on the North Carolina barrier islands—including herself.

Dillon is the only man who seems to be able to see the woman behind the black eyes and cool skin, and as she slowly begins to trust him, she starts to see herself as he sees her. A human woman with a human heart.

As society begins to unravel, the pressure is on to find a cure before the hate groups calling for eradication can no longer be drowned out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Allison B. Hanson
• Release date: Aug 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9780984031740

Allison B. Hanson

Not many authors know the exact moment they became a writer. For Allison B. Hanson there was a definitive start to her career. Around four in the morning on November 20th, 2009 Allison woke up with a conversation going on in her head. It wasn't so much a dream, as being forced awake by her imagination. Unable to go back to sleep she gave in, went to the computer and began writing. Years later, the stories haven’t stopped coming.Allison grew up in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Southern Pennsylvania and now lives near Hershey, Pennsylvania. Her historical romances include kilted heroes of the cinnamon roll variety. She also writes paranormal, sci-fi, fantasy, and mystery suspense. She enjoys candy immensely, as well as riding her motorcycle, running and reading.Visit her at www.allisonbhanson.com.

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Outer Banks

Allison B. Hanson

Outer Banks

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2018 by Allison B. Hanson

Digital ISBN: 978-0-9840317-4-0

Outer Banks

Copyright 2015 by Anson Barber

Print ISBN: 978-1-61922-809-2

Digital ISBN: 978-1-61922-494-0

Editing by Noah Chinn

Cover by Kanaxa

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. Electronic publication February 2015

First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. Print publication February 2015

Second Allison B. Hanson Electronic publication March 2018

Second Allison B. Hanson Print publication March 2018

Dedication

For my dad, Charles. Thank you for the endless Star Trek reruns.

Chapter One

The shrill ringing of the phone woke me. I closed my eyes tighter, trying to block it out. It was no use.

I had to make it stop. I shifted in the stiff, uncomfortable bed and reached out to answer it.

Hello? I said, my voice rough with interrupted sleep.

This is your wakeup call, Mr. McAllister. It’s five— The pleasant voice paused. —p.m., she clarified.

Yes. Thank you. I hung up, not needing the details. I knew how crazy it was to get a wakeup call in the evening. Or getting a wakeup call at all for that matter. But phones and electronics weren’t always dependable.

I sat on the edge of the lumpy mattress and blinked while I tried to remember where I was. I made my way to the room’s wobbly table and picked up the file.

I was in Louisiana. Amite, Louisiana to be more exact. I was investigating reports of a young boy sneaking around a butcher shop at night.

I opened the thick curtain and looked out into the parking lot. Trucks were passing by on the interstate. The Bob Evans across the street was filling up with the early dinner crowd.

The pavement was wet. It had rained at some point. The last of the day’s sun glimmered in the puddles as I closed the curtains.

I dragged myself to the bathroom and turned on the shower as I scanned my face in the mirror. I needed a shave, but I just didn’t feel like it. Instead, I slapped my cheeks lightly and took off my shorts before stepping under the intense stream of water.

It felt like a pressure washer. I adjusted the nozzle so the water wouldn’t shred my skin, and began washing myself.

As I looked up at the ceiling tiles, darkened from past water damage, I thought of how routine this moment was, when only a year ago it seemed life would never be this way again.

Last March, They came.

It bordered on cliché the way they arrived. Just like every space alien movie ever written.

Their immense, matte black ships appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the afternoon. They hovered like large mechanical jellyfish above the most populated centers on earth. Their long tentacles lit randomly, pulsing. Silent.

They sat there for hours. No movement. No activity in the sky, while down here on Earth everyone went into a panic.

It was all the things you would expect to see when the end of the world seemed inevitable—looting, suicide, mass religious gatherings. Then the military got involved. Hoards of tanks, missiles and soldiers were deployed to protect us from the unknown invaders.

Just seeing their ships on TV told me we were goners. They had the ability to suspend a city-sized craft in the air for hours with no sound and no emissions. That in itself confirmed they were far more advanced than us.

Technologically speaking, of course.

I knew a thing or two about technology. On a rudimentary level anyway. I was a mechanic. Vehicle restoration and repair. Or at least I had been until that day.

When night fell, the ships finally moved.

Closer to Earth, they opened the tentacles and unleashed wave after wave of what we now refer to as Bugs, regardless of what Latin-based foot long word the scientists gave them. But these weren’t like any insects we had on Earth.

They stood on four long legs, taller than a human. Their other two legs—more like arms—were used to grip onto their human prey and pull them into their waiting fangs.

These things were everything your darkest imagination could conjure up. Shiny black scales covered their exterior, healing over immediately when shot. Even if the soldiers had a chance to shoot past a human victim—which they always seemed to have in their grasp—the insect was left unharmed.

Their fangs penetrated the jugular veins and drank the human, while two pincers in their abdomen held them in place.

They disposed of the drained carcasses into shallow holes they punched into the ground, or cement or pavement—whatever they happened to be standing on. Their back feet could cut through almost any surface effortlessly.

Their red eyes were constantly in motion, searching out their next victim.

It didn’t take long to realize we didn’t stand a chance.

And we weren’t really surprised. Hadn’t we always suspected such a thing? Even the skeptics had to admit they had at least thought about this possibility. We couldn’t be so arrogant as to think we were the only living things in the universe, or that we were superior. We were hugely flawed.

Then, near dawn, something strange happened.

Right before the sun came up, the Bugs went back to their ships. The war had ended. For the moment.

They didn’t leave. Their crafts hovered motionless again, just as they’d done after their arrival. Though now our cities were in shambles. In one night the appendages of their vast ships had knocked down buildings and power lines as they scarred the surface of our planet.

For the humans in these areas still alive, the panic had subdued. We were numb. There was no more of the worry about what was going to happen. We knew.

Others weren’t ready to give up. The military stepped up their tactics. Depleted uranium, naval rail guns, even bunker busters failed to make a dent. At last they tried nuclear weapons, which only killed more humans and left no mark on the ships.

This was still on Day One.

The scientific community came alive, spouting ideas of hope with chemical, bacterial and even genetic warfare.

The regular people, people like me, folks who lived in a small town and were only seeing this on the news, had no choice but to hope these people could stop the attack before it reached us.

The next night, the ships moved to a different area and opened up again. Bringing the expected horror to the places the humans had converged the closest. The refugee zones. The new largest populations.

Again, they buried the dead for us, taking even this small gesture of humanity away. Like the night before, the attack subsided moments before the sun rose.

Seven days. That’s how long it took people like me to learn why.

Seven days, and millions of deaths later, we had a plan. We had a chance.

When the vile beasts came out again, the military was armed with a new weapon. Anything that could move was mounted with a UV light—soldiers, jeeps, tanks, and every helicopter they had still flying.

For whatever reason, their scales couldn’t heal from their injuries under the harsh light. For once, we were actually able to kill them. They had a weakness, and we had a chance to take back our world.

A joint strike force managed to board one of their ships, swarming it like carpenter ants, cleaning it from the inside out. In the end, it had crashed into the ocean, and whatever the survivors learned about the invaders in that battle was still a closely guarded government secret.

After that, the invaders had left as quickly as they had come. We’d shown them we could defend ourselves, and they knew they would be exterminated if they tried again. At least, that’s what we told ourselves during the celebrations.

In the week that followed, the world was one.

We were triumphant and determined to clean up, rebuild, and move forward. We had memorial services to honor the dead. The skies were constantly monitored to make sure the invaders wouldn’t return, while UV weapons were installed in every city, just in case.

But none of us were prepared for what happened next. The ambush that would destroy humanity even more than the actual attacks. The event that would turn our now united world against one another.

They hadn’t left because we’d found a way to beat them. They left because our substandard bodies couldn’t handle what they really wanted us for. They had been trying to convert us into some kind of slave labor, but it hadn’t worked.

It wasn’t our strength that saved us, it was our weakness.

And it had unexpected consequences.

Checking out, sir? the freckled clerk asked as I stood in front of her, yanked from my thoughts.

Uh. Yes. I handed her the key card and looked out the window at the sun moving closer to the horizon. A half hour until sunset.

The clerk looked at me suspiciously as she tapped the keys on her computer. I understood it was odd for someone to be checking out in the evening. Most people stayed in hotels for the night, not the day.

She glanced out the window at my black van with the blacked out windows.

Are you a…? She couldn’t say it. I didn’t blame her. I couldn’t say it either. It was a stupid name. Hunter.

Had I known I would have become one I would have offered a better title, not something that came out of a bad TV show.

Do we have one here? An infected person? In Amite? She instantly became alarmed.

I put up my hand in annoyance. This was how they all reacted.

Relax. I’m just passing through, I lied to get the drama over with quickly.

She did as I asked, and handed me my receipt.

You know they can’t hurt you, right? I felt the need to point out the stupidity. They can’t contaminate you or anything. I shook my head in disgust at her reaction.

I heard a gang of them attacked an old lady near Phoenix. People say they’re starting to move in packs.

I waved my hand and walked out on her ridiculous claim. Just rumors. I shouted back.

I drove to the street where the butcher shop was located. Parking three blocks away, I took position behind a dumpster so I had a clear view of the back door.

I was still irritated by the clerk’s response. This was the problem. Fear.

When humans don’t understand something they instinctively fear it, then fear turns into hate and hate turns into eradication. Hadn’t we destroyed lives for convenience’s sake enough to know what we were capable of? Didn’t we know enough about ourselves to see it happening again?

When the humans who had been buried in the ground by the Bugs began digging themselves out one night a week after they left, we as a society were ecstatic.

Creeped out, certainly, but ecstatic nonetheless.

Not everyone who was buried survived. Some who were shoved into tight crevices when their respiratory systems began working again suffocated. Some had been dug up and reburied elsewhere deeper, too deep to crawl out of. Some had been exhumed for post mortem tests before they even had a chance, while many others had been cremated. But some emerged. And some soon became thousands.

You’d think this would have unfolded like a zombie movie, with terrified people firing on the recently deceased, and that did happen in a few places. But word spread quick that those who’d come back were more or less normal, and online the hopeful outweighed the paranoid. The world chose to embrace those that had returned.

The reporters were there, catching the heartwarming scenes of husbands reunited with their wives. Mothers with children. It was wonderful. The government was cautiously optimistic, of course, but for the rest of us it was a miracle we didn’t think we’d deserved.

And then, the sun came up, and we found out they weren’t normal at all.

The altered humans began to burn and melt in the sun. They weren’t just weakened by UV like the invaders had been. They were destroyed by it.

Of course these were our neighbors, our loved ones, our children. We brought them inside and covered our windows.

When the sun set and it was safe again, many were brought to hospitals, though they had healed from their burns already.

The official report came out a few days later, along with a fancy acronym. Human/Alien Neutral Transition Syndrome, or HANTS. Everyone began calling them Haunts, which seemed more accurate since it was truly terrifying.

We began to see the invasion in a new light. The abdominal pincers which had pierced into the human’s back were not just used to hold the person still or incapacitate them. They’d also injected a fluid into the human.

Scientists had at first believed it was an efficient way to flush the blood out as quickly as possible so they could move on to the next victim—perhaps even a way of removing their own waste product. All we’d known for sure was the Haunts had been drained of blood and in its place was now a black, icky goo.

Okay, that wasn’t exactly what the official report said, but that’s what it was. Alien foreign substance—whatever. It was black, icky goo. Thicker than regular blood, it labored their hearts, causing them to tire quickly.

With no real blood, and this fluid poorly mimicking its functions, the anemia made them look pale and ill. Their disturbing eyes, which after the first few days became solid black marbles, studied their predicament with alarm—at least until they fell into a comatose state during the day, another strange effect that only began a few days after their return.

They hadn’t been transformed, they were still transforming.

It wasn’t much of a shock when the more reactionary groups took one look at what was happening and decided they weren’t human anymore. But hope and reason still won out with most of the world. The survivors were fully aware of themselves, just as puzzled and even more terrified of what was going on. But by now compassion was being tempered with suspicion.

Their sleep schedule was a mysterious inconvenience. They woke up about fifteen minutes after the sun set, and were able to stay awake for roughly ten hours, give or take. But sooner or later they slipped back, most around sunrise. They called it winding down because they could feel it coming.

Once they were asleep there was no way to wake them up again. They were completely vulnerable until their sleep cycle was over.

The Haunts condition was tragic, and I believe if this had been the extent of their transformation we would have gotten past these differences. We’d have taken care of them and gone back to our lives as normal. We would have found a way for them to fit into society.

But the worst was yet to come.

I caught a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye. Instinctively I reached for my light, then relaxed as a boy jogged across the alley to the back door of the butcher shop. I watched as he pulled himself up on a crate below a tiny window and lifted the torn screen.

He slid through the opening like he’d been doing it every night for months, which was most likely the case.

Butcher shops don’t normally have cameras or alarms. It’s not every day you see a thief taking off down the street with a side of beef.

This boy wasn’t a danger to any of the meat inside. He had found himself a pretty good thing. But I was there to stop him.

Usually I tracked the person back to where they slept, waited until they went dormant and then picked them up when they were defenseless. But this boy was so small I knew I wouldn’t have a problem, and I could get a head start if I took him right away.

Not to mention the fact he would probably appreciate a good meal instead of the animal drippings he was collecting.

When the Haunts rose up out of the ground, it wasn’t long until we realized their black fluid and UV intolerance weren’t the only things they had in common with the aliens. Like the Bugs, the infected humans also fed on blood. When the hunger really hit, they weren’t always able to control themselves, and the nearest blood supply was usually inside their own house.

It was the icing on the disturbing horror story cake, and it was when people started listening to the fear mongers, and stopped listening to their humanity.

At first, everyone was certain a cure would be found. Their loved ones would be returned to normal and all would be well.

After the initial rounds of drug trials failed, we started to come up with alternative ways of coping in the US. Some other countries were far less tolerant with their own approaches.

Clinics were established, and blood drives were held in places Haunts could easily get to. But sometimes the hunger won out, and then people got hurt.

That was what worried people the most. People like the clerk at the hotel.

I could have explained the facts, but the rumors about packs of starving fiends roaming the streets attacking healthy humans and draining them dry had everyone on edge, though these were extremely rare instances.

Some Haunts didn’t handle the hunger well. I’d been bitten a few times while trying to bring someone in. It wasn’t like they could help it. It was instinctual, like an alien program took over, just for a moment. Most apologized after they regained control and realized what they’d done. It was best to make sure they ate before they went feral and someone got hurt. To be fair, feral wasn’t really the right word to describe this lapse, but it’s what everyone used.

While some of us were content to live next to people with this affliction, even donate blood, most were not. In the United States we had an estimated three hundred thousand Haunts that had survived. On the other hand, China had ten times that number. Had.

Hate groups started to grow in popularity. Names like Vampires, Demons and Zombies were being used. Rumors and outright lies were thrown around about them, claiming they could turn others into monsters like them or that this was just a larval stage before they burst open and turned into a Bug. None of this was true, but it didn’t matter if it was true. It felt true.

Of course, when the world is covered with stupid people there were bound to be stupid people on both sides. Some Haunts believed their new form to be superior to humans, there were support groups that turned into cults, and some of those who couldn’t cope simply gave in to their baser instincts and became the monsters they feared.

It was only a matter of time before the match was lit and the violence escalated. The worst stories made the news.

By September, everyone was demanding something be done to protect the American people, and being an election year meant those demands were answered promptly.

We had lockdowns in cities. Curfews meant Haunts were kept indoors during the night and since they couldn’t go out in the day they were basically prisoners in their own homes.

In the end, the fear intensified until there was no other choice but to remove them from the general population. Laws were passed requiring Haunts be registered and surrendered to their closest clinic.

The Outer Banks in North Carolina was chosen because it was a pleasant community surrounded by water and easy to regulate. Due to the Haunt’s weakened constitution, they wouldn’t be able to swim anywhere. Eminent domain was invoked to take possession of the entire region. The bridges were guarded, and all fuel was seized making escape by boat or vehicle nearly impossible. The President instituted a nationwide mandate compelling prison inmates to donate blood to keep up the inventory levels. I guess the idea was that things might calm down if voters weren’t constantly reminded the problem still existed.

The government made it sound like we were doing them a favor by forcing them to live at a vacation destination for their protection. But really, it was just a fancy prison. An internment camp. We knew it, and they knew it. They even adopted the tourist term OBX, but now it made it sound like a supermax prison.

Testing continued on the infected humans, sometimes with grave results. It didn’t exactly encourage Haunts to come to OBX. A number of them were kept hidden by their loved ones, while others fled their homes and hid wherever they could, often resorting to draining small animals and pets, and sometimes people.

These rogues became despised. A pestilence we had to confine or get rid of. No longer part of the human race, they were seen as animals to be hunted.

That was where I came in.

This boy had been collecting the blood left behind from processing meat. It was a non-violent way for him to live, but I still needed to take him in. It was my job.

In his case, I believed taking him to OBX was for his safety. It wouldn’t be long before some overzealous asshole took the matter of protecting the community into their own hands and hurt this kid. At least in quarantine he would be given clean blood and a safe place to stay.

He slid back out of the window feet first and landed a foot from me with a light thump. His head only came up to my nose.

He jumped when he realized I was there. His dark eyes looked up at me in fear, but he didn’t try to run. Instead, his shoulders slumped as he sighed and said, "Aw, hell."

Sorry, kid. You’ve gotta come with me. I frowned and he nodded. You need anything from your place?

No. I don’t have anything. I’ve been sleeping in a shed. He shrugged.

Okay, let’s go. I have some food in the van. I’m guessing you’re probably hungry.

He looked up at me and nodded in defeat. Am I going to the Outer Banks?

We had begun preparing the Upper Peninsula to hold Haunts, but so far it had been unnecessary.

That’s the only facility we’re using right now. Unless you’ve got the cash to get into the Florida Keys.

The boy looked down at his dirty clothes. I seem to have left my gold card in my other pants.

Are you going to give me any trouble? You can sit up front with me if you don’t try to run. Otherwise I’m going to have to lock you up in the back.

I can barely walk fast. You’d find me from my panting if I tried, he explained rolling his eyes. The gesture wasn’t lost even with his eyes being completely black. You could just tell.

Okay then. I kept a slow pace with him as I led him back to my van. Do you know about when you fall asleep? I can set my watch.

Nah. I don’t know exactly.

I got a bag of blood out of the cooler, what some people called a juice box. After taking another look at him I grabbed a second bag. He didn’t look so good. I was surprised he could stay up this long in his condition.

With the permit in my wallet, I was able to acquire blood at any hospital or clinic. I was also allowed to be in the company of a Haunt without being fined for harboring.

Lawmakers had been scrambling to put together new rules to cover the extent of our mandate. The big one, whether it was murder to kill a Haunt, had yet to be resolved.

Many of the Haunts had death certificates on file, created during the time they were underground. Given the strange ways in which their biology worked now, some tried to argue they weren’t just legally dead, but no longer human—and you could only murder humans.

Don’t bite me, I warned as I handed the boy one of the bags. He tore into it right away as he followed me to the passenger’s door.

It was always a strange sight to see. The one time the infected no longer seemed quite human was when they fed. It was like something else inside them took over, just for a second. But in his case he didn’t growl or snap like some I’d encountered. Other than gulping, he was downright civilized.

He already had the first bag finished by the time I walked around to the driver’s side.

Buckle up.

I can’t get hurt, he said, but did as I asked.

"You can get hurt, you’ll just heal fast. There is an extremely uncomfortable difference." I chose not to mention how he was not unbreakable.

Maybe I just don’t care anymore, he said.

Right, well, I don’t need you flying over here and hurting me.

He nodded as I handed him the second bag and started the van.

Thanks, he said as he bit into it.

What’s your name? I asked when he’d finished.

He looked at me like I was crazy. "My name?"

Yes. You have a name, I’m sure.

Corey. Corey Ralston. It seemed like he hadn’t said it in a while. I guessed he hadn’t felt like a person in a while either.

I’m Dillon, I told him to help put him at ease. He stared. I didn’t expect him to say it was nice to meet me. It rarely was.

We rode in silence for the first half hour.

Nice van, he finally said.

Thanks. I converted it myself. The safe box in the back is carpeted. It’s pretty roomy, I told him. I used to be a mechanic.

Cool. How did you get this gig? he asked.

As we rode down the highway toward the Outer Banks, I answered his question.

Chapter Two

Bobby Sims had been instrumental in getting me the job. We’d served together in the same unit in Afghanistan before the invasion. He was a grunt and I worked in the motor pool. Bobby was all right, cracking jokes and bringing enough beer for everyone on poker night. But he was also a loud-mouthed, opinionated redneck, who called Haunts all kinds of things and wanted to wrangle them all up and put them out of their misery. He was consistent at least—he did the same thing to enemy combatants back in the service.

"A